Page 29 of Minted

“So it’s true?” the man who always sends over the contracts—Davis, I think—asks. “You and James broke up?”

Bentley nods slowly. “About time, right?”

“If I’d been sure, I’d have asked her out,” the man I think is named Davis says. “But I guess you were too fast for me.”

“Exactly,” Bentley says. “If I’ve learned anything from my fifteen years of crushing on her, it’s this. You have to move fast, or someone else snaps Barbara up.” That’s the second time he’s said something that ridiculous.

“I guess I’ll just have to wait,” Davis says.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Bentley says, dropping to a whisper. “I’m smarter than the Brit. I’m not planning to screw up.”

Everyone around us is now roaring.

When I glance over my shoulder, James is standing in the corner with Kristy, scowling.

“But when was your first date?” a woman I’ve never seen asks.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Bentley says.

“Sweetheart, maybe we should keep some things to ourselves.” I squeeze his arm pretty hard.

“Oh, I think a story this good should be shared.” Bentley bumps my hip playfully. “I was pretty sly.”

“You were?” Tawnya’s biting her lip, her eyes bright. “How?”

“I told her I needed help finding someone to date.”

Everyone gasps.

“She helped me set up my online dating account. She even helped me screen which women to take out.”

“You’re kidding,” Davis says. “Why?”

“Because I wasn’t sure whether she was over her ex.” Bentley sighs. “And I was worried that if I asked her out too soon, I’d wind up being a rebound.”

Luckily, the CEO arrives then, and our little court of lies is broken up by the planned presentation.

“You’ll have to finish later,” Tawnya says.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” I jab Bentley’s side.

He glares at me, but he shuts up.

A moment later, my phone bings. I check it as inconspicuously as possible, assuming it’s some kind of blistering text from James.

But it’s not.

It’s a photo from Bentley with one word. SEE? When I click the tiny icon, the photo downloads—laggy because we’re inside a hotel, presumably—and I’m surprised.

It’s a photo of me in my green dress and red heels. I’m half-smiling, and I don’t look too bad. I mean, sure, my arm’s at an awkward angle, so it looks thicker than I’d prefer, but I look mostly happy. Probably because I have a date with me, so I don’t feel quite like the pariah I’ve been at work since James left me.

He did say he’d send me photos, but I thought it was just something he said. I didn’t really think he’d do it. Once we’re seated, as hidden in the far corner as I can be and still find two seats, I summon up my irritation at his blatantly fabricated story, and I let him have it. Quietly, so I don’t interrupt the CEO’s awards ceremony.

“What were you thinking?”

“I thought I did pretty well. When I’m forced to lie, I always stick as close to the truth as possible,” Bentley says. “And in this case, that story was almost the absolute truth.”

Which is why I hated it. It’s a sidestep of what happened—the version of our story I wish was true, I realize. If only he had liked me for fifteen years. If only he asked for my help to find a woman as an excuse to spend time with me.

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